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Sold on a Monday: A Novel

Sold on a Monday: A Novel

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Sold on a Monday: A Novel

4/5 (130 ratings)
428 pages
7 hours
Aug 28, 2018


A NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER WITH MORE THAN A MILLION COPIES SOLD—Sold on a Monday is the unforgettable book-club phenomenon, inspired by a stunning piece of Depression-era history. 

"A masterpiece that poignantly echoes universal themes of loss and redemption...both heartfelt and heartbreaking."—Pam Jenoff, New York Times bestselling author of The Orphan's Tale

2 CHILDREN FOR SALE. The sign is a last resort. It sits on a farmhouse porch in 1931, but could be found anywhere in an era of breadlines, bank runs and broken dreams. It could have been written by any mother facing impossible choices.

For struggling reporter Ellis Reed, the gut-wrenching scene evokes memories of his family's dark past. He snaps a photograph of the children, not meant for publication. But when it leads to his big break, the consequences are more devastating than he ever imagined.

Inspired by an actual newspaper photograph that stunned the nation, Sold on a Monday has celebrated five months on the New York Times bestsellers list and continues to especially captivate fans of Lisa Wingate's Before We Were Yours and Kristin Hannah's The Four Winds.

Look for the new novel by Kristina McMorris, The Ways We Hide, a sweeping World War II tale of an illusionist whose recruitment by British intelligence sets her on a perilous, heartrending path, available September 2022.

Aug 28, 2018

About the author

Doris Lessing was one of the most important writers of the second half of the 20th-century and was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature 2007. Her novels include The Grass is Singing, The Golden Notebook and The Good Terrorist. In 2001, Lessing was awarded the David Cohen Prize for a lifetime's achievement in British literature. In 2008, The Times ranked her fifth on a list of "The 50 greatest British writers since 1945". She died in 2013.

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Sold on a Monday - Doris Lessing

Front Cover

Also by Kristina McMorris

The Edge of Lost

The Pieces We Keep

Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

Letters from Home

Title Page

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Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright © 2018 by Kristina McMorris

Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Laura Klynstra

Cover images © roroto12p/Shutterstock, Sveta Butko/Trevillion Images

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60563-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168


Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: McMorris, Kristina, author.

Title: Sold on a Monday / Kristina McMorris.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2018]

Identifiers: LCCN 2017061403 | (softcover : acid-free paper)

Classification: LCC PS3613.C585453 S65 2018 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017061403


Front Cover

Title Page




Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part Two

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Part Three

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

An Excerpt from The Ways We Hide

Author’s Note

Reading Group Guide

A Conversation with the Author


About the Author

Back Cover

For the children in the picture

A thousand words will not leave so deep an impression as one deed.

—Henrik Ibsen


Outside the guarded entrance, reporters circled like a pack of wolves. They wanted names and locations, any links to the Mob, every newsworthy detail for tomorrow’s front page.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

In the hospital waiting area, on the same chair for hours, I raised my head when a doctor appeared. He spoke to a nurse in a hushed tone. His full mustache, peppered like his temples, vibrated with his words. My shoulders coiled into springs as I searched for a look, a suggestion of the worst. Tension heightened around me from others fearing the same. The sudden quiet was deafening. But then the doctor resumed his strides, his footfalls fading around the corner. Once more I sank into my seat.

The air reeked of disinfectant, bleach, and the cigarettes of nervous smokers. From the tiled floor came a shrill scrape, a chair being dragged in my direction. Tiny hairs rose on the back of my neck from more than the sound. Upon learning of my involvement, an officer had warned me a detective would soon be here to talk.

That man now sat down to face me.

Good afternoon. He removed his brimmed hat, an act of casualness, and rested it on his lap. From his pin-striped suit and tidy haircut to his perfect white teeth, he was a recruitment poster for J. Edgar Hoover.

I didn’t catch his name or the formalities of his introduction—my mind was muddled from waves of worry and lack of sleep. But I could guess what information he wanted. No different from the journalists amassing on the street, ever eager to pry. Hungry for answers I hadn’t fully grasped.

If only I could escape—from this place and moment in time. How nice it would be to leap forward by a week, a month. The unseemly rumors would have long been buried, the puddles of blood mopped clean, the outcome of this day endured. I envisioned myself then in a dim corner of a café, being interviewed by a young reporter over coffee. His fresh-faced zeal would remind me of the person I once was, back when I first moved to the city, convinced that aspiration and success would crowd out the darkness of my past. The sense of not being worthy.

What a relief, he would say, that everything turned out fine.

For some, of course. Not all.

Then I heard Can you tell me how it all started? The reporter in my head blended with the detective before me. I wasn’t entirely sure which of them had asked. And yet, as if through a lens, I suddenly viewed the past year with astounding clarity, saw the interwoven paths that had delivered each of us here. Every step a domino essential to knocking over the next.

With no small amount of regret, I nodded at him slowly, remembering as I replied.

It started with a picture.

Part One

Photography is the art of observation. It has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them.

—Elliott Erwitt

Chapter 1

August 1931

Laurel Township, Pennsylvania

It was their eyes that first drew Ellis in.

Seated on the front porch of a weathered gray farmhouse, among the few homes lining the road surrounded by hayfields, two boys were pitching pebbles at a tin can. Ages six and eight at most, they wore no shoes or shirts. Only patched overalls exposing much of their fair skin tinted by grime and summer sun. The two had to be brothers. With their lean frames and scraggly copper hair, they looked like the same kid at different stages of life.

And then there were their eyes. From as far as twenty feet away, they grabbed hold of Ellis Reed. They were blue, like his own, but a shade so light they could have been cut from crystal. A striking find against the blandest of settings, as if they didn’t quite belong.

Another drop of sweat slid from Ellis’s fedora, down his neck, and into his starched collar. Even without his suit jacket, his whole shirt clung from the damn humidity. He moved closer to the house and raised his camera. Natural scenic shots were his usual hobby, but he adjusted the lens to bring the kids into focus. With them came a sign. A raw, wooden slat with jagged edges, it bowed slightly against the porch, as if reclining under the weight of the afternoon heat. The offer it bore, scrawled in chalk, didn’t fully register until Ellis snapped the photo.

A breath caught in his throat.

He lowered the camera and reread the words.

Really, they shouldn’t have shocked him. Not with so many folks still reeling since the market crashed in ’29. Every day, children were being farmed out to relatives or dropped off at churches, orphanages, and the like, hoping to keep them warm and fed. But selling them—this added an even darker layer to dire times.

Were there other siblings being spared? Would the brothers be separated? Could they even read the sign? Ellis’s mind whirled with questions, all lacking presumptions he would have once made.

Even, say, six years ago—at barely twenty and living in Allentown under his parents’ roof—he might have been quicker to judge. But the streets of Philly had since taught him that few things make a person more desperate than the need to eat. Want proof? Sit back and watch the punches fly at just about any breadline when the last of the day’s soup is ladled out.

Whatcha got there, mister? The older of the boys was pointing toward the small contraption in Ellis’s hand.

This? Just my camera.

Actually, that wasn’t altogether true. It belonged to the Philadelphia Examiner. But given the situation, clarifying seemed unimportant.

The small kid whispered to the older one, who addressed Ellis again as if translating for his brother. That your job? Makin’ pictures?

Fact was, Ellis’s job of covering fluff for the Society page didn’t amount to much else. Not exactly the hard-nosed reporting he’d envisioned for his career. A gopher could do the same work.

For now.

The older boy nodded and tossed another pebble at the can. His kid brother chewed on his dry bottom lip with an air of innocence that matched his eyes. They showed no hint of knowing what life held in store. Probably a good thing.

While children who were adopted as babies were often raised as real family, it was no secret how kids acquired at older ages were valued. The girls as nannies, seamstresses, maids. The boys as farm and field hands, future workers at the factories and mines. Maybe, though, it wasn’t too late for these two. At least, not with some help.

Ellis peered at the front windows of the house, searching for movement beyond the smudges. He strained to catch the clinking of pots or a whiff of boiling stew, any indication of a mother being home. But only the distant groan of a tractor and the earthy smell of farmland drifted in the air. And through it all came thoughts of reason.

What could he possibly do for these two? Convince their folks there had to be a better way? Contribute a whole dollar when he could scarcely afford his own rent?

Both brothers were staring at him, as if waiting for him to speak.

Ellis averted his attention from the sign. He scoured his brain for words with real meaning. In the end, he came up empty.

You boys take care of yourselves.

At their silence, he reluctantly turned away. The plinking of rocks on the rusted can resumed and then faded as he retreated down the country road.

Fifty yards ahead, the Model T he’d originally salvaged from a junkyard waited with windows open. Its radiator was no longer hissing and steaming. Somehow its surroundings, too, had changed. The sprawling acres, the crooked fencing—only minutes ago Ellis had found them interesting enough to photograph for his personal collection. A decent way to pass time while his engine cooled from the August heat. Now they were mere backdrops to another tragedy beyond his control.

As soon as he reached his old clunker, he tossed the camera inside, a little harder than he should have, and retrieved his jug of water. He refilled the radiator and prepared the motor by adjusting the levers and turning the key. Back at the hood, he gripped the fender for leverage and gave the crank a hearty jerk. Thankfully, a second attempt revived the sedan.

Once behind the steering wheel, he chucked off his hat and started on his way, more anxious than ever to return to the city. In less than an hour, he’d be in a whole different world. Laurel Township would be a speck of a memory.

Spread over his heaped jacket beside him, his map flapped against air breezing through the car. Just this morning, that wrinkled page, penciled with notes and circled destinations, had guided him to his latest rousing assignment: a quilting exhibition by a ladies’ auxiliary of the American Legion, headed by the sister of Philly’s mayor. No doubt much of the needlework was impressive, but Ellis had grumbled with every click of the shutter. The fact that it was Sunday had further soured his mood, as he still needed to develop the photos and draft the article for his deadline tomorrow morning. So much for a day off. Yet now, humbled by that pair of boys, he felt ashamed of grousing over a job many would envy.

Though Ellis tried to push the kids from his mind, they circled back again and again as he rattled down the highway and out of Chester County. Still, not until he approached the Examiner’s building did he note the real reason they’d resonated so deeply.

If Ellis’s brother had survived, he wondered, would they have looked just as similar? Would they both have been wanted?

Chapter 2

Arriving at her desk, cloche hat still on and purse in hand, Lily cringed at what she had done.

Or had not done, rather.

On Friday afternoon, a labor reporter had been waiting for his photographs to dry, despite looking miserable from a cold. Lily’s boss, Howard Trimble—an editor in chief who ran the paper with all the rigidity of a commander preparing for battle—had demanded to review the images first thing come Monday. Since the reporter would be away on a story then, Lily volunteered to help. I’ll turn in the photos, she had promised. You go home and rest.

She wasn’t one to make promises lightly, yet in the whirlwind of other tasks, she had forgotten. Now it was Monday morning—a quarter to eight. Fifteen minutes until the chief’s regular arrival.

Lily tossed her handbag aside and hastened across the half-filled newsroom. Mumbled conversations traveled across the desks, each butted up against the next. In a regular changing of the guard, the Examiner’s daytime staff was edging out the remnants of the night crew.

Beside the elevator, she climbed the stairs—a faster route when ascending a single floor—and emerged in the composing room on the fourth level.

Morning, Miss Palmer. A young, long-limbed fellow stood to her right with an armful of files. The name of the new hire escaped her.

She responded with a smile, only slowing when he pressed on.

Supposed to be another sweltering week ahead.

Apparently so.

You do anything over the weekend?

She had made the two-hour trek to northern Delaware as usual—to her real home. Not the ladies’ boardinghouse nearby where she resided during the workweek. But the purpose of those trips, like so much else in her life, was not something she could share.

I’m afraid I’m in a hurry at the moment, but enjoy your day. With another smile, she proceeded past him to reach the door in the corner. Fortunately unlocked, it led her into the pass-through. The sign on the second door—Do not disturb—was flipped backward, indicating that the darkroom was not in use and safe to enter.

Inside, a thin chain dangled from a light bulb overhead. She gave it a tug, illuminating the small, rectangular space with an eerie red glow. The air smelled of developing solutions that filled an assortment of trays, set among supplies on the counter lining a wall.

More than a dozen photographs hung from a wire that stretched the length of the room. Toward the end, just past shots of women proudly displaying quilts, Lily spotted the three pictures she had come for. Scenes from a steelworkers’ union meeting.

She quickly retrieved an empty folder from the counter and unclipped the trio of photos. She had just finished storing them when a sight pulled her gaze. It was a simple picture of a tree—unless a person looked closer. The old oak stood in a field, alone, almost sad. Its branches reached forward as if longing for something unseen.

She surveyed the next image, of initials carved into a splintered fence.

K.T. + A.\

The last letter was unfinished, leaving strangers to imagine its intended shape. And more than that, its story. She moved on to another picture, then another. A discarded bottle cap pressed into a road. A single flower standing tall in a patch of dry weeds. From the way each photo conveyed a tale, she knew who had captured them.

Since starting as the chief’s secretary the spring before last, Lily had stumbled upon Ellis Reed’s personal photographs on two other occasions. Every image bore an intriguing perspective, a depth of detail that most would have missed.

Although few men in the business were willing to write for the women’s pages, or settle for the pay, Ellis persisted with diligence. Like Lily, he had clearly been relegated to a job that bypassed his true talents. She never made mention of this, of course, as their periodic exchanges rarely surpassed basic cordialness…

The thought fell away as she turned.

Amid the red haze hung a photo of a sign. Two children on a porch were being offered for sale. Like cattle at market.

All at once, a tide of emotion rushed through her, unearthing old sediments she had worked to bury. The fear, the pain, the regrets. Nonetheless, she couldn’t look away. In fact, even as moisture clouded her eyes, she pulled the picture from its clips for a closer view.

A flash of light jolted her.

The door had opened and immediately shut.

Sorry! a man called out. It wasn’t locked, and the sign’s not flipped.

Lily recalled her mission. Be right out!

She collected herself, as best as she possibly could, and started for the door. As she reached for the knob, it occurred to her that Ellis’s photograph remained in her hand.

A dark part of her wanted nothing more than to shred and burn the copy, along with the negative. But an internal voice supplied another idea. She could make something good out of the utterly horrible. She could bring children too easily forgotten to the foreground, a reminder that each of them mattered. A hard-won lesson from her past.

Without another glance, she added the picture to her folder and opened the door.

Chapter 3

Through the lumpy mattress, the bedsprings voiced a throaty creak.

Ellis tugged the pillow off his head and squinted against sunlight pouring through his window. He’d left it open to relieve the heat. City noises and the stench of fumes and sewage made for an unfortunate trade-off. He rolled toward his two-bell tin clock on the night table that doubled as a desk, blinking hard to clear his vision.

A quarter after ten. Fifteen minutes past deadline.

Shit. He must have shut off the alarm in his sleep. It was no wonder, what with the bickering couple upstairs keeping him awake half the night.

He clambered to rise, his sheet already pooled on the rough wooden floor, and cursed his urge to piss, requiring time he didn’t have. In a few steps he reached the door—the lone benefit of an apartment the size of a broom closet—and joined the line for the bathroom, stretched halfway down the hall. Another downside of the nation’s massive unemployment. Two years ago at this hour on a workday, hardly anyone but mothers, tots, and the elderly would have been home.

Come on, already, he muttered. A scuttling mouse was the only one who budged.

In front of Ellis, a trio of middle-aged women ceased their conversation. Their pointed glares delivered a revelation: he had nothing on but his drawers.

Jesus. Sorry. He reflexively covered himself. Though his average build had gained decent muscle through the years, in that moment, he reverted to the puny kid he’d been before puberty ran its course. A moderate stickball hitter with no hope of making the majors, a track runner whose confidence, and thus speed, always left him a few paces shy of a trophy.

On the upside, the need to relieve himself had subsided. Enough to wait anyhow. He hightailed it back to his flat, the women’s gripes over his indecency and language echoing down the hall. At his washbasin, he splashed his head and body with day-old water, then threw on his laundered work clothes from the rope that halved the room. Shoving his article into his worn leather satchel, cradled like a football due to its missing handle, he dashed out the door. Someday he’d commute in style, not fretting over the price of gasoline. Until then, he’d sprint to catch the teeming trolley.

On board, passengers fanned themselves with folded newspapers or brims of their hats. Ellis noticed he’d forgotten not only his fedora, but also to tame his hair with tonic. The black waves were a short yet unruly bunch. Another reason to avoid a grand entrance today.

The rails squeaked and the bell clanged as the streetcar rolled on, slow enough to catch headlines shouted by paperboys.

Lindberghs landing in Japan!

Young bandit slain, detective shot!

Runaway bride reunites with groom!

Through the lingering haze—from mills and factories that coughed and sputtered, straining to stay alive—City Hall came into view. Limestone and granite formed the majestic building. Atop its clock tower, a bronzed William Penn scowled over the unacceptable hour.

Ellis hopped off at his stop, barely avoiding a horse-drawn truck. He hustled down Market Street, weaving his way through pushcart peddlers and shoe shiners. He didn’t slow until he’d entered the stony, five-story home of the Examiner. It was no Evening Bulletin, but with more than twenty years under its belt, it was still a respectable contender for nightly readership.

After a quick visit to the closest bathroom, Ellis boarded the elevator, joining two men from the proofing room. Third floor, Ellis said.

The stooped lift operator completed his yawn before initiating the ascent, and the proofers rambled about dames they’d met the night before, a couple of shopgirls at Wanamaker’s. The operator opened the door a foot above the third floor—more often it was a foot below, remarkably never level—inviting in the sharp scents of coffee and ink and a sea of cigarette smoke.

Ellis stepped down into the city room, the nerve center of the paper. In the middle of the desk-filled maze, editors of the four major departments were rigorously working in their seats. Thankfully, no sign of his direct boss, the managing editor, Lou Baylor. The stout man’s bald head, often flushed from stress, made him easy to spot. Closer to deadline, he became a jittery ball of red.

Ellis slid right into the midmorning din. Rising chatter, from both the staff and portable radios, competed with trilling phones and clacking typewriters. Copy boys zipped about, everyone playing catch-up from the weekend. A perpetual race with no ultimate finish line.

A few strides from his desk, Ellis felt a tug on his elbow. He swung around to find Lily Palmer, a coffee mug in her grip.

Goodness, Mr. Reed. Where have you been?

I…just… My alarm. It didn’t ring.

The gal was a beauty, though not in the typical Jean Harlow way. She wore her auburn hair neatly pinned up. And her nose, slender like her lips, was dusted with light freckles. Today, though, he noticed her eyes the most. Not for their green-and-copper coloring but for their spark of urgency.

Chief’s been asking for you. You’d best get in there.

Ellis scanned the wall-mounted clocks spanning four time zones. The local hour read 10:42. Had word of his gaffe already gone all the way to Trimble?

At most papers of this size, the editor in chief would leave the managing editor to wade through the daily weeds. But as the oldest son of the retired founder, Howard Trimble rarely encountered an issue too minor to address, particularly when it warranted reproach.

Ellis dreaded one of those searing rants now. Sure. Just need a minute to put my things—

From the chief’s office in the far corner came a bellow. "Can I get some coffee here, or do I gotta do everything myself? And where the hell’s Reed?" Trimble’s door was only half-open, but he could likely be heard all the way to the basement, where even the printing presses would be challenged to drown him out.

Lily sighed and arched a brow. Shall we?

Ellis nodded—as if given a choice.

Together, they made their way across the room, past lines of desks bookended by pillars of newsprint. In her low heels and straight black skirt, Lily walked without speaking. Ever graceful yet on the primmer side, she was never one to make idle conversation, though her silence now seemed daunting.

And then came the glance, an odd look. Maybe she knew something he didn’t.

What is it?

Mmm? Oh…nothing.

Miss Palmer. Ellis stopped her a couple yards from the door, where she hesitated.

You…look like you had a rough night is all.

He suddenly saw himself for the mess he’d become—face unshaven, mop unkempt, suit slapped together. Dapper as a hobo from an alley.

At least he had on more than his drawers. He shrugged a little. Undercover story, he offered.

She smiled, the joke of it sadly obvious. Then her lips lowered as she turned for her boss’s office. Ellis smoothed his hair, spiked and still damp, and followed her inside.

On the low file cabinet by the open window, the blades of a mechanical fan ticked with every rotation.

It’s about damn time, the chief barked from his seat. A tad round in the middle, he was rarely seen without a bow tie and spectacles on the edge of his nose. With eyebrows as thick as his beard, he resembled a kindhearted grandfather—until he opened his mouth.

Ellis perched on the visitor’s chair. He propped his satchel against his shin, anchored for a tornado. As usual, the desk before him appeared to have been hit by exactly that. Letters, folders, scraps of notes. Memos, circulars, clippings. The mound was almost thick enough to bury a body.

A former writer’s, for instance.

Don’t forget about your eleven o’clock, Lily was saying to the chief, handing off the mug. Also, your wife phoned. She wants to know where you two are having dinner on Friday.

The chief halted midsip. Christ. I forgot to make reservations.

In that case, I’ll tell Mrs. Trimble it’s the Carriage House. They can seat you at seven. Lily didn’t miss a thing. I’ll let the maître d’ know it’s your anniversary so they’ll have flowers and something…special for the occasion.

The reference to alcohol was only lightly veiled, as it wasn’t unusual to trade a generous tip for wine or champagne at even top-notch restaurants. For all its good intentions, Prohibition had swelled not only the public’s desire to drink, but also corruption by mobsters now living the high life. A full week didn’t pass without a headline about the likes of Max Boo Boo Hoff or Mickey Duffy or the Nig Rosen gang.

Well then…good. The chief’s tone actually bordered on pleasantness. But a moment later, he waved Lily away, and his hard gaze angled to Ellis.

So, he said. Reed.

Ellis straightened in his seat. Yeah, Chief.

As Lily passed, her eyes seemed to say Good luck. Then she swung the door closed, rattling the glass pane, and the chief set down his coffee with a small splash. "Apparently, you’ve been taking some interesting pictures."

Thrown off, Ellis struggled with the implication. Sir?

How ’bout you explain this. From a folder, the chief tossed a photograph onto the desk. It was of the boys on the porch, their gut-wrenching sign propped out front. The chief must have seen the other photos too. As the matter became clear, a weight dropped to the pit of Ellis’s stomach.

Chief, these were just… I had to kill time after the Auxiliary event. It was hot out there, and my engine…

There was no reason to go on. Nothing was going to justify using a camera and film owned by the paper to take personal pictures, only to develop them with company supplies.

The chief leaned back and thrummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, either contemplating or gearing up. It seemed best for Ellis to stay quiet.

You’ve been working here…what, four years now?


A technicality. Ellis winced at the unwise correction, but then his own words sank in.

Five years wasn’t eternity, though still a respectable chunk of time. After first toiling away in the morgue—an apt nickname for the windowless, dust-ridden archives room—fittingly followed by a stint of punching out obituaries, Ellis had pleaded for a promotion. I’ll cover anything, he’d said. As timing would have it, one of the paper’s two Society writers had just quit after getting hitched.

Ellis had pushed his male ego aside. The job was a bridge. Plus, it helped to know he’d be reporting directly to Mr. Baylor, who’d been picking up the slack since the Society editor left to care for her mother. Howard Trimble was never a bigger fan of efficiency than when it cinched the paper’s purse.

That was two years ago. Despite subsequent requests for a shot at real news, Ellis was no higher in the chain. Mercifully, most assignments that required detailed descriptions of cake and chiffon belonged to his matronly Society colleague. But that still left Ellis with an endless series of gallery exhibitions and uppity galas, occasional celebrity sightings, and—his personal favorite—charitable fundraisers hosted by elites who ignored street beggars every day while strolling to shop at Gimbels.

If anyone deserved to gripe, it was Ellis.

He raised his chin, bolstered by pride. That’s right, it’s been five years. And all the while, I’ve put in a hundred percent. Working near every weekend at any event I’m assigned. Never complained once. So, if you’re hitting me with a reprimand, or want to can me over a few lousy pictures, you go right ahead.

Logic fought to rein him in; it was hardly a good time to be out of work, and Lord knew he’d never crawl back to his father for help paying the rent. But the hell with it.

There was no emotion in the chief’s face. You done?

Ellis fended off any inkling of regret and issued a nod.

Splendid. The man’s tone remained level but taut. Like a wire that reverberated with every syllable. "’Cause the reason I’d called you in here was about writing a feature. A family profile to

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What people think about Sold on a Monday

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  • (5/5)
    I enjoyed this book. It was an easy read, I found it very difficult to put the book down at times.
  • (5/5)
    Very good story,l thought it was well done. On to next read.
  • (5/5)
    I loved this story, actually I read it once before but when I saw it for sale in b.us, I wanted to read it again and loved it the second time!
  • (1/5)
    Didn’t read it. I need audible books not written books couldn’t find a way to get out of it
  • (5/5)

    1 person found this helpful

    A very gripping novel, making one realise just how difficult things were in those days. Made me appreciate my life all over again!

    1 person found this helpful

  • (3/5)
    Wow I really love it I would loved to read it again
  • (3/5)

    1 person found this helpful

    I really wanted to love this book but I didn’t. The idea was good. The writing was ok. It was predictable and then far fetched.

    1 person found this helpful